


baby, look at me, you’re my superstar.

by mihkrokosmos



Category: EXO
Genre: Angst, Codependency, Gory Imagery, Implied Murder, M/M, Panic Attacks, Unhealthy Relationships, does that count, hurt questionable comfort, it’s not implied it happens but not graphically, jongin bby imma get u out of there!, kind of, like no actual gore but..... heavy metaphors involving gore, rated M FOR MURDER, serial killer au
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-05
Updated: 2020-01-05
Packaged: 2021-02-27 05:21:32
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,129
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22121746
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mihkrokosmos/pseuds/mihkrokosmos
Summary: “I love the way we worked so hard,” Kyungsoo murmurs along, “we’ve come so far.”“Stop,” Jongin snarls, “stop it. Stop playing with my fucking head, ‘Soo.”Kyungsoo clicks his tongue, sharp and staticky over the phone.“I’m just singing along. You should appreciate the effort. Ah… you would probably sing it better than I ever could, though. Tell me, Nini, have you watched the news? Do you have the time?”
Relationships: Do Kyungsoo | D.O/Kim Jongin | Kai
Comments: 2
Kudos: 15





	baby, look at me, you’re my superstar.

**Author's Note:**

> inspired by superstar by MARINA, which is one of those love songs that doesn’t sound like a love song.
> 
> songs referenced are i’m a ruin and superstar, both by MARINA.

“It’s been half an hour.”

“I know.”

“Thirty fucking minutes.”

“I know.”

“You can’t even pretend you want to stay, huh. You’re a fucking coward.”

“I know.”

* * *

The city lights are daggers. Each errant speck of light that dares to brush against his skin feels like a burn. Cigarette ash from a god’s apathy. He can’t close his eyes, he’s  _ driving _ , but it’s a near thing. He lets himself wonder what the papers — no, the tabloids, he doesn’t deserve the credibility of newspapers — would say if he crashed. Here and now. Is he a big enough deal for people to care? Or would it be written off as another cry for attention? There are— there was a line, once, between  _ Jongin  _ and  _ Kai _ . Even his fans picked up on it, gifs made to showcase his  _ duality _ , his  _ versatility _ , his  _ incredible ability to live a lie _ .

* * *

“Trust me? Trust me. Jongin, please.”

“You don’t plead. That’s not how you work— that’s now how any of this works. You can’t just— what the fuck?”

“All I need is your trust.”

“No. No, you’ve  _ always  _ had my trust. What are you really asking me for?”

“You’re getting smarter.”

“Kyungsoo, whatever it is. Don’t. It’s not worth it.”

“Did I ever stop you? Did I, Jongin, when I had to give up everything to follow you?”

“That’s not what this is about.”

“Answer the question.”

“Which one?”

“Aren’t the answers the same?”

* * *

He didn’t try and pack his suitcase properly. It’s tossed in the backseat, half-open. Its inner organs consist of clothes and toiletries and obscure snacks which would have lasted two people a week. Not like that matters, since the case has been effectively disemboweled. It looks like a tornado ravaged the interior of the car and ran out of steam before it could start tearing the metal and aluminium to pieces. 

His phone lies in the passenger seat, void black against clinical white leather. Every so often, it’ll light up with something. A text from a particularly persistent ‘fan’, a call from his manager, another text from another fan (god, he should get a new number), a call from his sister, a tag on instagram, a call from Kyungsoo.

Kyungsoo would yell at him for using his phone whilst driving. Kyungsoo would also yell at him for not answering the phone. Kyungsoo yells a lot, nowadays. Usually at him. 

Jongin won’t pretend he doesn’t deserve it, but it’s getting progressively more difficult to  _ not  _ snap back at him. He won’t lose himself like Kyungsoo has. Not that much. Not yet.

The haze of the city passes, and Jongin finds himself on winding, bumpy roads with less light. Fine by him. The shadows outside hiss and flee from the stark white-and-red exterior of his car, headlights dissuading them from returning. Jongin thinks this must be the loneliest place on earth, the moment in between leaving and staying.

His phone starts vibrating, again. Insistent buzzing that fills up the car and Jongin wonders if he can drown in sound. Only one number can bypass his silent settings. 

“Why are you calling me from your work phone,  _ D.O _ ?” He rasps, pulling over and braking the car. His head rests against the steering wheel, brown eyes staring into the glowing symbols on the dashboard.

“Would you listen to me otherwise?”

Kyungsoo must still be in his penthouse. Jongin can hear music in the background, the singer crooning about playing with hearts and easy fights. Jongin wonders if it was chosen on purpose.

Probably.

“I’m listening now,” Jongin points out, shutting his eyes and letting his shoulders slump, “I thought there was nothing more to say.”

“You left before I could say anything,” and Kyungsoo sounds amused and Jongin would very much like to be sick, except he can’t really move, and Kyungsoo would disapprove and that shouldn’t really hurt but it does, “come on, superstar. Did you think I had nothing more to tell you?”

“God, I don’t know, you  _ did _ call me a coward.”

Kyungsoo  _ is  _ laughing now. It’s patronising and bitter and Jongin nearly takes the brake off just to drive into the trees in front of him. Nearly. The song in the background has changed. 

“I love the way we worked so hard,” Kyungsoo murmurs along, “we’ve come so far.”

“ _ Stop _ ,” Jongin snarls, “stop it. Stop playing with my fucking head, ‘Soo.”

Kyungsoo clicks his tongue, sharp and staticky over the phone.

“I’m just singing along. You should appreciate the effort. Ah… you would probably sing it better than I ever could, though. Tell me, Nini, have you watched the news? Do you have the time?” 

Jongin— can’t. Can’t move. Can’t think. He’s sitting in his car on a backroad and he can hear the city even from here and, for a hysteric second, he thinks Kyungsoo can see him from his fancy penthouse in the city, which was probably paid for in blood. Even if Kyungsoo can’t see the way Jongin is frozen, falling apart, he can hear the erratic breaths over the phone. 

* * *

“What did you do?”

“Calm down, Nini, it’s nothing.”

“How is this  _ nothing _ ? How—”

“It wasn’t me.”

“Why would— huh?”

“Jongin, baby, why would you accuse me of something awful like that? Is it because of the conversation the other day?”

“I don’t… I just… I’m sorry, ‘Soo, I shouldn’t have just, I don’t know, assumed.”

“You shouldn’t have, baby, but it’s all fine. I forgive you.”

“You really… you really had nothing to do with it? With— with what happened  _ her _ ?”

“Baby, Nini, love, I’m not the unstable and insecure boyfriend you think I am.”

“I don’t think that!”

“Uh huh. You want to make it up to me? Let’s get dinner at that fancy restaurant. My superstar should be able to pay for it, since he’s getting so famous now.”

“Shush, you don’t need to flatter me to get me to go on a date with you.”

“I don’t need to flatter you to get you to do anything, silly, but I’m not going to stop.”

* * *

“He didn’t deserve it,” Jongin manages to say, “yeah, he said some horrible stuff, but he didn’t need to— to—”

“You’re wrong.”

And it’s disgusting, how the detached coldness of Kyungsoo’s voice is enough to kickstart Jongin’s heart and even out his panicked breathing. He hates it, the same way he hates Kyungsoo and hates himself. 

“Jongin,” Kyungsoo croons, loving and affectionate, “don't you see? I’m always looking out for you! I’m always protecting you. I do  _ so much _ , and you can’t even stay a week with me.” 

Jongin didn’t witness the accident, murder, death, demise. He didn’t see any of it, but it’s infinitely worse, because what does it say about him, when he can still decipher the message being broadcasted? Fuck, fuck, fuck. He’s hollow. His lungs are the empty bottles of wine and soju which he  _ knows  _ are still littering Kyungsoo’s otherwise spotless floor. The only thing connecting Kai to D.O is the plethora of bodies in between. The only thing connecting Jongin to Kyungsoo is a rattling heartbeat and the glass shards of what remains of its source.

A single car passes him, too focused on going from A to B to ponder the sleek, foreign model lying stationary at the roadside. Jongin’s pretty sure they don’t care about the slumped figure inside, the hurricane raging in the confines of leather and metal. That’s fine. 

“Jongin,” Kyungsoo is still on the line, but he’s whispering as if he’s forgotten.

“Do Jong-in…” Kyungsoo murmurs again, dragging out the syllables like he’s distracted thinking about him. Them. Whatever.

“It’s Kim,” Jongin retorts, voice cracking in the middle. A moment of hesitance and uncertainty. Is it? He wouldn’t put it past Kyungsoo to have changed everything about Jongin’s very existence without him realising. It’s so very Kyungsoo, to be meticulous before there is a reason to be.

“Of course,” Kyungsoo agrees, the playful lilt in his tone dragging claws down Jongin’s spine. If he closes his eyes, he can picture himself torn up and bloody, the talons of Kyungsoo’s control reaching down into his bones without a care about the muscles and nerves around them. “We’re digressing, though, aren't we?” 

_ Digressing?  _ Jongin wonders, hysterical,  _ since when was there a script? What’s the plot? _

(His career as an actor wasn’t  _ quite  _ as lucrative as the idol one).

“My love,” and he’s back to whispering, barely decipherable from the usual static, “come back. Come home.”

Jongin doesn’t have the energy to argue.

* * *

“What did you do, Jongin?”

“...Huh?”

“Don’t cry, don’t cry. I’m not mad.”

“I never— I didn’t do anything! I swear!”

“You can’t lie to me, Jongin.”

“I’m not lying! Why would I lie?”

“Why don’t you tell me, hm? Tell me why you lied about her.”

“Kyungsoo, I didn’t do anything! I swear!” 

“…Alright. Come here.”

“Are you— are you mad at me?”

“Jonginnie, I was never mad. Just disappointed.”

* * *

Jongin met Kyungsoo when he was eighteen, half the weight he was supposed to be due to a pathetic income and the strain of keeping his grades high enough to stay in university. Kyungsoo was a pipe dream, a no-nonsense business student who came from old money and  _ cared about Jongin _ . He… can’t really remember how they even met. They had no overlapping classes, Jongin being the epitome of a liberal arts disaster and Kyungsoo being— well, Kyungsoo was Kyungsoo, and that was more than enough for Jongin. 

He had never minded relying on Kyungsoo, comforted by the fact that Kyungsoo seemed to— to  _ need _ him just as much. Even as he climbed the corporate ladder, even as Jongin managed to debut with SKY. Even as work drove a wedge, a rift, between them.

Kyungsoo called him baby, called him love, called him darling. Said he adored him.

Adored him so much, he’d burn the world down if Jongin asked him too. Jongin never did (ask, that is), but the world burned anyway. Because, it seemed, Kyungsoo was above permission and honestly and all those pathetic, earthly,  _ human  _ concepts. He had money. He had brains. Soon, he’d have power and influence enough to stop needing to worry about stupid shit. Like, jail, or whatever.

Jongin didn’t take a scalpel to Kyungsoo’s brain, didn’t try to dissect what he knew he wouldn’t understand. Was that a mistake?

He stands in front of the man. He’s shaking, shuddering so violently he thinks he could take the rest of the building down around him. Kyungsoo doesn’t move from his seat on the sofa. The music from the phone call is still playing, hypnotic and alarming. Jongin hasn’t looked away from Kyungsoo. Kyungsoo hasn’t looked up from his phone — the normal phone, not the  _ work  _ phone.

Is this it? Is this all they are? Is this how it ends?

Kyungsoo gestures for Jongin to come forward. For a second, two, three, he can’t move. And then he’s rushing, falling to his knees beside the sofa. Sobs tear their way out of him, saltwater soaking his face, his clothes, hands. All Kyungsoo does is pet idly at his hair, waits for the overwhelming panic to subside.

* * *

“What happens now?”

“Hmm?”

“Don’t play dumb, Kyungsoo. You’re not dumb.”

“I’m flattered.”

“Why won’t you explain what’s going on?”

“Oh? Has Jongin been talking to  _ people _ ?”

“ _ No _ . I just… want to know. For myself.”

“Not yet. I’ll tell you later.”

“Promise?”

“Mhm.”

* * *

Kyungsoo has pulled Jongin up onto the sofa beside him, intertwining their bodies in a grotesque knot of bones and designer-label clothes. They’re just skin and muscle trained to get along, at this point. When Kyungsoo starts pressing little kisses on Jongin’s head, across Jongin’s face, down Jongin’s neck, he doesn’t have the heart in him to push him away.

He’s never hated anyone more in that moment. 

He’s never loved anyone more in that moment.

The television has been turned off, but Jongin already knows the headlines. The blonde reporter will tsk and tut over the sudden death of ex-SKY member, Oh Sehun. An unfortunate accident. They’ll have unearthed the vicious texts he sent in a drunken haze, lashing out at Jongin and Chanyeol without a hint of remorse. Jongin thinks that, if he’d had the time, Sehun would have apologised. He would have meant it, too. 

But, Kyungsoo didn’t give second chances.

Not to Sehun, not to Krystal, not even to Seungsoo when he had tried to talk his brother out of a relationship with Jongin. It would look suspicious, if it was just them. Jongin knows, though. He knows about the hidden ones that not even the police are able to find and identify. 

He also knows that he’s the only exception to Kyungsoo’s rules.

(For how long?) 

**Author's Note:**

> my twt is dlorkyungsoo !! this was not a nice fic


End file.
